


Water Conservation

by quartzfarmer



Series: Water The Trees [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast), The Adventure Zone: Amnesty (Podcast)
Genre: Bed-Wetting, Canon Compliant, Gen, Justin Said Duck Pissed Himself I Don't Make The Rules, Nightmares, Prophetic Visions, Rated T Because I Let Duck Say Fuck, Takes Place In Episode 13, Trans Duck Newton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 09:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18775429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartzfarmer/pseuds/quartzfarmer
Summary: Justin: I feel like with a roll of this caliber Duck will have something bad to him— I feel like he’s also pissed himself. Like, I think if he has a vision that is this bad, he has to have wet the bed during it.Griffin: Oh my god.Justin: Canonical.-TAZ: Amnesty, Episode 13





	Water Conservation

     The stars are exceptionally bright tonight, Duck notes. The vast expanse of space around him almost looks like it’s been painted. He can see the colors more vividly than he has ever seen in his life. He chalks it up to the absence of the moon leading to less light to dim the stars. He’s mesmerized, standing with his head tilted back for several minutes. Just watching. All he can see is sky, extending out forever, and he feels like the stars are surrounding him. He fixes his gaze on one of the stars in the center of his field of view. It’s a beautiful marigold and larger than the other stars. Much larger, Duck observes, three, maybe four times the side of the next largest star. Squinting, he tries to see if he recognizes it as a planet. It’s not a planet. Instantly, he feels his mouth go dry. It’s not a planet, and it’s getting bigger. His heart is pounding as he realizes: this is a meteor. Duck wants to move, but his whole body feels like it has locked up. He can’t look away. A quarter of  what he can see of the sky is blocked by this massive hot rock. Duck’s chest is tight with panic, the meteor is going to strike and kill him and he can barely breath. He’s sweating, can feel the heat on his skin, can feel his skin blistering and burning. It’s sizzling and he gags as he realizes he can _smell_  his skin cooking. It’s so bright that he screws his eyes shut, a sob wracks his body, and he’s in pain and-

     Duck jerks awake to the sound of his phone ringing and the itchy feeling of tears cooling on his face. He’s panting and he can feel his arms trembling as he attempts to push himself up. Saliva fills his mouth and he has to swallow back a wave of nausea because __shit__ , the smell of melting flesh is still in his nose. He gets to sitting on the edge of the bed and realizes his pajama pants are soaked by more than sweat. He grimaces and moves to answer the phone, but his legs shake too much to stand. The phone stops ringing. “Fuck!” The curse comes out as a sob. Another round of tears begins rolling down his cheeks, getting caught in his stubble. Duck grabs a pillow and shoves his face into it as he wails, withdrawing occasionally to take hitching breaths. The phone is ringing a second time now, but when Duck tries to stop crying he’s met with harder sobs.

     After his weeping settles down to an occasional chest spasm, Duck wipes his face with the dry side of the pillow case. Yuck. All his clothes are cold and they cling damply to his skin. He wiggles out of his wet pants and boxer briefs first, leaving the wet clothes on the end of his bed, then he yanks his shirt over his head and chucks it in the direction of the laundry hamper. Letting out a shaky sigh, Duck lowers himself to lay sideways across the bed (cautious of the damp spot) and begins taking deep, measured breaths. The phone rings again. It occurs to Duck that it’s dunk o’clock in the morning and whoever is calling him for the third time probably has a damn good reason. Duck’s limbs, though still shaky, are now cooperating. On his way out of his room he snatches a clean-ish pair of pajama pants from his hamper and puts them on.

     He walks to the living room of his apartment, clearing his throat so it hopefully wasn’t obvious he was just crying, and answers the phone. “Go for Duck.”

     “Hey, Duck, it’s Juno. I hate to wake you up like this, but I figured you’d wanna be in the know.” She, coincidentally enough, sounds like she has been crying.

     “Hey, Juno. What, uh, what’s goin’ on? You alright?”

     “I’m fine but Danimal ain’t. He was in an accident on route 66 last night and, well, he hit a tree, didn’t make it. Officers are investigatin’.” Juno sniffles.

     Duck sits down on the coffee table, “Aww, gee. That’s just… aww, gee.” He feels heavy. Not any certain emotion like grief or anger, just... heavy.

     “Yeah…” She sighs, “I’ll let you get back to bed, Duck. Sorry to wake you with somethin’ like this.”

     “Alright, you have a... well, a decent rest of your shift. Buh-bye.” He gently places the phone back on the receiver. “Damnit, Rick.” Duck mutters.

     It takes him a bit to gather the strength to stand, but Duck heads back into his bedroom, nose wrinkling at the stench of piss and sweat he hadn’t noticed before. He makes quick work of stripping the sheets and comforter off the bed and decides to throw the sheets and his clothes in the washer. The comforter won’t fit, so it’ll have to wait, Duck decides before heading to the couch to get a bit more sleep.

* * *

 

     For the last twenty or so years Duck has been an early riser, so when he eventually wakes up at 10:57 AM to Fig shoving her face into his armpit, he’s a bit shocked. Usually his internal clock doesn’t let him sleep past 8 AM, even on his days off. It’s also a bit disorienting to wake up on the couch when he distinctly remembers falling asleep in bed with his cat curled up next to his pillow. The events of last night (earlier this morning?) quickly come back to him. Duck groans and covers his face, pushing the cat off of the couch as he does so. Fig gives a deep and disapproving meow and runs to her food dish. He feeds the cat, swaps the wet laundry to the dryer, puts the comforter in the washer, and gathers clean clothes so he can take a shower.

     Duck strips in the bathroom as he waits for the shower to warm up and notices the insides of his thighs are covered with a rash and he has some wide spread itchy/sticky-ness between his hips and his knees. He curses himself for not rinsing off before going back to sleep and hopes he doesn’t end up with a yeast infection or, God forbid, a UTI. He takes a longer shower than he usually does. After last night he feels that he deserves as long a shower as he wants, water conservation be damned. He washes himself thoroughly, then stands under the low-pressure stream of the shower head, reminiscing about times with Danimal, concentrating on his body that is certainly not burning. Duck showers until the water turns lukewarm, then stands in the tub with the water off till he’s shivering. Eventually he drys off, ponders over what to put on a rash in sensitive areas before shrugging and digging for the almost-empty and almost-certainly-expired tube of triple antibiotic ointment he keeps in a drawer by the sink. He applies a thin coating to any irritated areas and grimaces as he pulls on a clean pair of boxer briefs. The rash shouldn’t last long, especially for him, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable in the present.

     The sound of the phone ringing drifts in from the living room and Duck scrambles to finish dressing before answering it. “Go for Duck.”

     “Hey there, Duck. It’s Mama. Hate to skip the pleasantries, but our special guest just stepped out and I don’t know how long I’ve got to make some calls. Barclay and I are wantin’ to have a Pine Guard meeting sometime today. You available?”

     “Yeah, I’m free today. What time are y’all thinkin’ of meeting?”

     The sound of a pencil scratching away on paper can be heard over the speaker. “How about as soon as you can get here?”

     Duck’s eyebrows raise, “That uh… that’ll work. Be there in twenty?”

     “See you then.” Mama hangs up

     Duck inhales deeply, holds his breath for seven seconds, and slowly exhales. Right. Now he just has to act okay enough that no one asks him any questions that’ll lead to him blurting out that he pissed the bed. Easy peasy.

     Aww, man. He's screwed.


End file.
